


The Case of the Red-Stained Gown

by Shay_Fae



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Watson's away, the Sherlock will play....</p>
<p>Watson comes back after his wife's death to find that things aren't quite how he left them. But there's little time to get angry with a new case afoot. Women are being murdered in locked houses and nothing is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say I own nothing :)

Scotland Yard was not unused to Sherlock Holmes striding in at a moment’s notice. Within minutes of his arrival, his coat would be taken by a detective, his gloves by yet another and he would have been seen down to the interrogation rooms where his least favorite person, Lestrade, would be waiting. 

But today was different. Today Holmes walked not down to the basement but to a side office. Lestrade ran up to meet him and Holmes shot the ever-suffering man a withering look.

“Took you long enough,” he said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “Where’s the boy?”

“Inside,” Lestrade began but Holmes cut him off. 

“Why is he upstairs?”

“We’re full downstairs. Besides, he won’t be here long. He’s an easy hanging. You don’t even need to talk to him, we found the maps in his pockets when we searched him. There’s no way he’s not Nimble Fingers,” Lestrade explained. 

“I’d like to,” Holmes said simply. “I’ll be out shortly,” he added and then headed into the office.

The room was small with a narrow window and a large desk center stage. Behind piles of paper sat a young boy. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen with a sallow face and thin fingers crossed neatly in front of him. Behind him stood an officer watching his every move.

“That’s enough Davis, you may leave us,” Holmes ordered. The officer didn’t question him but quietly left the room. 

Holmes sat down across from the boy and slowly studied him. All of his mahogany-colored hair hid under a cap, save for some fringe that peeked out. His clothes were common and lightly caked in dirt. He kept his eyes downcast and didn’t say a word. After a moment Holmes spoke.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked, shattering the silence.

The boy looked up but kept silent.

“It’s clear you didn’t need the money,” Holmes elaborated. “So why’d you steal the jewels?”

“Wha’ makes ya so sure I dinnit need ‘a money?” the boy asked softly.

“Well for starters your clothes don’t have a single hole in them. It’s beyond obvious you doctored them yourself. As for your hair it’s been recently washed, and not out on the streets I’m certain. Most obviously is that in all the robberies you committed before you returned the jewels,” Holmes said.

“Who sa’d I did tho’s?” the boy asked, smiling just a touch.

“I did,” Holmes said. “They had your style printed all over them. Now, before you hang, explain your motives.”

The boy showed no visible reaction to the news of his hanging. He simply looked Holmes in the eye and then, in a great show of emotion, smiled widely.

“I was bored,” he said simply, crossing and uncrossing his fingers.

“I expected as much,” Holmes nodded. “It’s a shame really, to see talent such as yours squandered. You could have made an amazing detective. But instead you became a thief, how odd.”

For the first time the boy looked upset. “I’m not a thief!” he protested.

“You stole one of the most expensive diamonds London ke-“

“I know what I did but I was going to return it!” he said, dropping the fake accent and adopting a more cultured British accent.

“Ah, just as I suspected. You are affluent,” Holmes smiled.

The boy continued as though Holmes had not spoken. “Look, I’ll tell you where the jewels are, just don’t let them call me a thief.”

“I’ve already deduced where the jewels are, so your help would be rather unnecessary,” Holmes said. “Although your pre-hanging remorse is touching.”

“I don’t care if I hang,” the boy said vehemently. “I just don’t want to hang a thief.”

Holmes leaned back and looked at the boy. “You don’t care you’re going to die?”

“I am already dead,” the boy said softly.

Holmes laughed. “Come now, let’s not be melodramatic. I’m sure if you tell me your father we can let him know and get you out of this mess.”

“Beg pardon?” the boy asked, looking up.

“Well it’s clear you come from a well-to-do family. I have no doubt they could pull some strings as it were and get you out,” Holmes explained.

The boy said nothing.

“Oh now we’ve gone silent?” Holmes asked, arching one eyebrow. “It will take me only a second to figure out who you are. I’ve already narrowed it down to six families, based solely on your skin color. If I could just get a better look at your hair-“ he started, getting up.

“No don’t!” the boy started, raising his hands.

“Care to tell me who you are?” Holmes asked, pausing.

“I-“ the boy stopped.

“It’s the last piece in the puzzle really, the one thing I haven’t figured out,” Holmes mused as the boy turned whiter and whiter. “I get why and I even get how but I cannot figure out who. Now if I can just get that cap off-“

“Please don’t-“ the boy began to beg but in an instant Holmes had yanked off the old and ragged cap and out tumbled a cascade of deep brown hair.

Holmes stared a minute at the child sitting before him. Now that the sallow, pale face was haphazardly framed in a soft cushion of hair it was easy to see how those eyebrows- so dashingly male- could soften to become feminine, those eyelashes a woman would kill for could become demure, those oddly round lips could fit with a bit of rouge.

“Oh,” Holmes said after a long minute of utter silence. “Well this does complicate things.”

The girl was silent, staring back wide-eyed.

“That does explain a lot however,” Holmes mused, sitting back down as the girl continued to stare shell-shocked. “I had wondered about the scent and the hair but I’d never assumed you were female. An obvious blunder on my part but I hadn’t expected to be looking for a ten-year-old girl.”

“Twelve,” the girl said softly.

“Really, you’re twelve?” Holmes asked, shocked. “And you’re so underdeveloped?” he questioned, waving at her boyishly flat chest.

The girl turned crimson. “I’m Molly Marple,” she whispered.

“Marple?” Holmes asked. “As in Lord Dr. Marple’s daughter?”

“His youngest of four,” she finished.

Holmes looked at her again. “Let me understand. You, a twelve-year-old girl, got it into your head in some capacity to begin stealing and then returning priceless jewels, even though you are not poor by any means, because you were bored?”

“Yes,” the girl said simply. There was a beat of silence and then-

“221B Baker Street,” Homes said.

“What?” Molly asked, utterly confused.

“221B Baker Street. There, I’ve said it twice, there’s no forgetting it,” Holmes said. “It’s my address. I’ll expect you every Monday afternoon at four staring this week. Do I make myself clear?”

“I just-“ she started.

“Or would you rather hang?” he asked and she shut up. He looked at her with an almost kind of softness for a minute. “If you must know, I’m bored too,” he explained quietly. “You seem like quite a project. Now, you see that window?”

“Yes I-“

“Can you fit through it?”

“I might be-“ she started but then Holmes cut her off.

“Good,” he smiled. “you have five minutes. Consider this your first exam.” And then he fell on the floor and began screaming.

“Lestrade, the suspect is escaping!” he yelled.

By the time the police burst in the room was empty, save for Holmes. They sent out a search party but it was as though the sixteen-year-old boy had vanished. The jewels were found the next day and all settled.

Until Monday morning that is, when 221B Baker Street received an odd knock.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and there stood a well-dressed little girl in a green dress. “Can I help you?” began Mrs. Hudson but Holmes appeared behind her.

“You’re late,” he said simply. “Come inside. Mrs. Hudson bring up tea for two in an hour. Come on now,” he instructed the girl and she followed him inside, leaving a confused Mrs.   
Hudson to close the door and offer up a small prayer.

“I do hope John is having a nice honeymoon,” she thought and went off to make tea.


	2. An Odd Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out it's all Watson's POV

I remember this case as clearly as if it happened yesterday, although truth be told this story is a long time coming. I never thought to publish it you see because the girl in question, the girl you met in the prologue I had to beg out of Holmes, could hardly stand the public attention had I made her identity known. But she is old now, and married no less, so I believe she will begrudge me one last adventure. It began on a Monday afternoon.

Those of you who know little of grief will not understand what it does to a man. How it corrodes and corrupts and leaves you empty and vacant. Mary, my one and true soul mate, had always been too good for earth but I hadn’t expected her to leave so soon. In the months following her death, I had become prone to walks and one such walk took me to 221B with a proposition. When I came to Baker Street, I found Mrs. Hudson, Holmes’s ever-suffering landlady, in the drawing room taking a cup of tea.

“Good afternoon Doctor. Here to see Mr. Holmes?” she asked, eying me with the same pity everyone seemed to give me now.

“Yes indeed” I said. “Is he in?”

“He is,” she said “but I would be careful. Strange noises are coming from his room.”

Mrs. Hudson had soon enough in her days with Holmes come to differentiate between “strange” and “normal” Holmes’s noises. “Thank you Ms. Hudson.” I said, and started upstairs with caution.

Outside Holmes’s door I heard the strange noises Mrs. Hudson alluded to. Feet shuffling, grunts, and the clashing of metal met my ears. Expecting the worst, I opened the door. I could not have been prepared for what I saw.

Holmes was engaged in a swordfight with a young woman, of all things. His jacket was off, his shirt out and his hair disheveled. The girl, of whom I could see only her back, had her red dress hoisted up around her knees, her sleeves pushed up to above her elbows, and her thick mahogany-colored hair thrown up in a slowly descending bun. She was pushing forward and Holmes was attempting to parry.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?!”

Holmes dropped his sword and looked up at me. “I’m giving a fencing lesson Watson,” he smiled, not the least bit out of breath. “What are you doing?”

The girl turned to face me. She had pale skin and thick eyelashes that made her look almost tired. My face seemed to shock her and she began the hurried process of tugging down her sleeves and her skirts.

“Oh I’m so sorry, please, I just-“ she began in a tremor and then Holmes turned to me in annoyance.

”Watson you devil, you’ve worked her up and she’s incredibly difficult to unwind. Take a seat Molly, let’s just talk, shall we,” Holmes tried but I was having none of it.

“There shall be no sitting of any kind!” I practically shouted. “Holmes I don’t know what has gotten into that winged head of yours but you do not run a fencing school!”

“Oh of course I don’t,” he smiled. “Molly is merely my apprentice.”

“Beg pardon?” I stuttered.

“I’m teaching her my ways Watson,” he explained slowly in that terribly condescending voice of his. Rarely had I ever been on the receiving end of that voice and it riled me.

“Holmes” I said, turning to my companion, “how long has this been going on?”

“Every Sunday for the four years” he said, utterly calm.

“And you didn’t tell me?” I asked.

“Well, you don’t live here anymore,” he said simply. “It didn’t seem necessary.”

“Oh it was very necessary,” I said sharply. It was then that I turned to the young lady, who had by now gathered up her hat and gloves. “Molly, I’m sure you are most lovely but it may be prudent-“

“I’m leaving, not to worry,” she said softly, pulling her gloves on.

“Same time next week Molly,” Holmes called after her but she merely nodded and headed out the door. Holmes then turned on me.

“I’m not sure if she’ll even come next week, now that you’ve scared her half to death. You certainly aren’t gentle, are you Watson?” he said.

“Just what are you thinking?” I exploded. “You’re giving sword fighting lessons-“

“Detective lessons,” he corrected.

“- to a twelve-year-old girl?” I finished

“Sixteen actually,” he pointed out.

“Really?” I asked. She was horribly underdeveloped. He nodded but I wasn’t finished.

“Holmes just what are you playing at?” I asked him.

“Sit down Watson,” he ordered.

“What?” I asked, jolted out of my monologue.

“Sit down and have some tea before you rupture something,” he said. Still on edge I sat down on one of the couches and let Holmes pour me a cup of tea. The first sip calmed me a bit as Holmes began to explain.

“Watson, what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential. Revealing this information can lead to the deaths of two people, do you understand?” he said.

I nodded, utterly confused.

“Watson, I’m not sure if you’ll remember this, seeing as you were swept up in a wave of love and euphoria and deep into your honeymoon, but there were a string of robberies across London. Jewels were being stolen from high-prices shops and then returned days later. Nobody took them very seriously because there was no monetary loss. The thief was coined “Nimble Fingers”.” He said.

“I think I remember that name,” I agreed. Mary had laughed at an article about that particular thief one morning in Niche.

“Well finally Nimble Fingers got ahead of himself and stole something huge,” he continued. “One of the most expensive diamonds in London, save the Hope diamond. And this time, he didn’t return it. After two months the police called me. It took me two weeks to track down the thief. And this is where things get tricky.”

“Are you trying to tell me that that little mite of a girl is Nimble Fingers?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“I am indeed,” he said, sipping his tea. “Although her real name is Molly Marple.”

“The marples? As in Lord Doctor Marple?” I asked in utter shock.

“One and the same,” he responded.

“But that’s impossible. Nimble Fingers escaped prison, no one ever saw him again-“ I began and then it dawned on me.

“Hence why two lives are at stake here, not just one,” he said.

“You helped him… her escape from prison!” I realized.

“Helped is a strong word,” he excused.

“Why on Earth would you do that?” I demanded.

“The girl is an utter mastermind Watson, a true genius,” he gushed. Holmes never gushed. “She led me on quite a chase till I caught her and even then I had no idea of her true gender until the very end. It would have killed me to see a talent like that cut short over some diamonds.”

“Holmes-“ I began but I had nothing to say. Thankfully, Holmes wasn’t done.

“You were gone Watson. I had grown accustomed to your presence. I needed a distraction, she was available,” he admitted. “And what a distraction she’s been, an utter protégé.”

“Holmes she is a child,” I started.

“Talk to her Watson. Better yet, watch her. She thinks like no child,” he said, drinking his tea. “I only explain myself to you because I value your opinion. The girl is my student and I shall not change it. You do not live here anymore Watson; it is not your concern.”

“You’re my concern,” I said but he merely shushed me with a wave of his hand.

“I’m more entertained than I have been in years,” he smiled. “Now go apologize to her or she might not come next week and then I shall have to find other entertainment. That may involve guns.”

“Holmes-“

“Watson, I am not a child,” he said simply and I blushed. “I plan to eat at six. It is just shortly after four. I shall have Mrs. Hudson set for two. What you do in the meantime is your own,” he said and got up, pacing over to the room next door.

I must have sat there wondering over my next move for close to an hour before finally left and hailed a cab to the Marple residence. A butler opened the door upon my knock and listened to my odd request for Molly Marple. I was not shown in and it was only a minute before the same shy girl appeared at the doorway.

“Dr. Watson,” she said, surprised.

“I came to apologize,” I said softly.

She too did not invite me in but said instead said, “I’m surprised. I had judged your pride too great for such.”

“You judge me harshly,” I said carefully.

“Noted. I shall be kinder with my judgments of you in the future,” she said. “And your apology is welcome and received.”

I wanted to say something about her future or her options or even about her sanity but in the face of her timid softness I said none of that. After a moment she spoke too.

“I’m sorry as well. I must have ruined the moment for you,’ she said.

“What moment?” I asked, surprised.

“You were planning to ask Holmes if you could move back in,” she said simply.

I stared at her. “How on Earth did you know that?” I asked, shocked.

“You wrote a little speech,” she smiled kindly. “One you kept reading and refolding and reading. It was in your breast pocket. You must have rehearsed on your way to the house because you folded it wrong and a few words peeped out. All I saw was I’ve been thinking Holmes and, given your recent tragedy, it wasn’t hard to figure out what you were thinking."

Holmes had not exaggerated. The girl was phenomenal.

“Holmes would have noticed it too, he was simply distracted is all,” she excused her mentor. After a beat she added, “I’m sorry for your loss Dr. Watson.”

“Thank you,” I said, my rehearsed responses kicking in. “Losing a soul mate is challenging.”

“I can’t imagine” she said, looking at me. For some reason I wanted to explain it to her, the whole thing.

“Have you ever loved someone, more than yourself?” I asked.

“No,” she said honestly.

“One day you will,” I explained. “And it will kill you.”

“I don’t think I ever will,” she said simply. “I’m rather terrible at emotions you see, any of them. It scares my mother terribly, that’s why she’s trying so hard to get me married.”

_My god_ I thought as she spoke, _is this what Holmes was like as a child? Emotionless and frightened?_

“Perhaps you’re simply a late bloomer,” I tried, being kind.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. Another beat passed before she added,

“He’ll say yes, you know. He values you tremendously.”

“I don’t think-“

“He speaks of you only with kindness,” she fleshed out.

“He is simply kind,” I said.

“I know,” she replied and I realized this girl was in awe of my friend, in so much awe it was practically reverence.

_She’s like me_ , I suddenly realized. _She isn’t frightened by his work, she’s fascinated by it._

“Well Molly, I should be off,” I said briskly and she nodded, moving to close the door.

“See you next week Doctor Watson,” she said in that same, still voice.

“I do suppose so,” I said and she closed the door.

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet and before long I found myself back in that living room where so many of our adventures had started. Holmes was just sitting down but he smiled when he saw me and got up.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“As if you don’t know,” I shot back and he laughed.

“I have missed you Watson,” he smiled, taking my hand. We sat down and then he said,

“I’ll need a week.”

“Beg pardon?” I asked, stopping to put food on my plate.

“To clear out your old room- I have some experiments in there. Should only take a week,” he replied and I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“How-“

“Oh surely you aren’t still impressed by my parlor tricks Watson,” he laughed and I laughed back. It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter next friday!


	3. The Case is Afoot

It was a fortnight after I had returned to Baker Street when I was awoken by a small explosion. I had barely shrugged on my dressing gown in a blind movement when I heard a second one. Amidst flashbacks to my time in the army, I ran out of my room and into the drawing room.

Holmes was on his knees, a small stopwatch in his hands, as Molly knelt working on what appeared to be a collection of wires.

“Too slow,” Holmes said briskly and then the third explosion went off, sending out a cloud of black dust. It had barely cleared before he was placing another such arrangement in front of the young girl.

“Again,” he ordered and Molly took it, her fingers already a blur.

“Holmes!” I cried, startling my friend. “What on Earth is going on?”

“Watson, I had hoped our time apart would not have made you less observant,” Holmes said sardonically, his eyes never leaving the stopwatch.

“Good morning Doctor Watson!” Molly called cheerfully from the floor, her hands in a mess of wires.

“Forgive me, but are you giving Molly pipe bombs?” I struggled to understand.

“Small versions, yes.” Holmes said, unfazed. “Although I must admit her time on them is dismal.”

Molly didn’t look up but kept working, the bomb beneath her smoking.

“Holmes, this is madness!” I cried, running to the poor girl. “You cannot give a child pipe bombs!”

“We’ve already established Molly is no ordinary child,” Holmes shrugged. “Besides, she needs to grasp the skill of bomb diffusion. It is essential to her training. Too slow.”

The bomb let off a gust of smoke and Holmes reached for the next one.

“Enough!” I ordered. “Let the girl breath in between.”

“No time,” Holmes brushed off, handing her another. “Try again.”

Molly didn’t take it though. “They can’t be diffused,” she said softly, staring at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re simply not trying hard enough,” Holmes stared back.

“They can’t be. The two fuses are polarized. I need to cut two wires at once,” she explained.

“So?” Holmes said, handing her the bomb. “Cut.”

She took it and I knelt beside her. “I can hold the second wire,” I offered and she nodded, not even looking up. She placed a red wire in my hands and two seconds later her pliers went though her wire and mine. The ticking stopped.

Holmes looked down at us. “Better. Now without Doctor Watson’s help.”

They both stopped suddenly though and glanced at each other.

“Carriage,” Holmes said.

“Two horses, it’s police.” Molly finished.

“Lestrade,” Holmes grumbled and got up. Molly nodded and moved to walk out of the room.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“Your room, obviously,” Holmes said, moving over to glance out the window.

“Why?” I asked, following him.

“Watson, how would Scotland Yard react to the news I was teaching a young woman, Lord Marple’s youngest daughter no less, the art of detection?” he said, his voice a mix of disdain and pride.

“But why my room?” I said meekly. I hated when he got like this.

“Most convenient,” Holmes shrugged. “Now act casual.” He shoved the remaining pipe bombs under the couch and settled his tangle of long limbs down on top.

I had barely sat down when Lestrade entered. “Holmes-“

“Let me guess, the detectives at Scotland Yard never actually went to school, you simply gave them badges because you wanted to,” Holmes said lazily.

Lestrade blushed but held his ground. “Will you take a look? It’s a bit tricky.”

“I’ll follow in my own cab,” Holmes said, picking up his pipe.

“Thank you. The address is-“

“Your shoes already told me. Now leave, we’ll follow in a minute,” Holmes cut him off with a flick of his match.

Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it, and left. Once we heard the front door close Holmes jumped up.

“Wonderful!” he cried, smiling at me. “I was starting to think I had caught all the criminals in London!”

Molly came back in and moved to get her gloves. “I shall see you next week sir?” she asked.

“Yes yes,” Holmes said distractedly. “I do wish I could take you on a case. Nothing I teach you can compare with first-hand experience.”

“She could dress as a boy,” I said suddenly, an idea striking me. “We all know your Baker Street Irregulars, you could say you wanted to bring one along.”

Holmes stared at me and for a minute I feared I had said something stupid before he hugged me. “Oh brilliant! You are brilliant Watson! Oh, welcome back old friend,” he cried, grinning widely and my heart swelled.

He stepped back to study Molly and nodded. “You’re about 160cm, yes?”

She nodded and he thought a second. “Wilson is 162, shouldn’t be much of a stretch,” he mused, striding over to the window and throwing it open. He whistled three times and then shut it. Within seconds the front door opened and a grubby boy was running up the stairs.

“Ya called Mr. ‘olmes?” he asked, stepping in.

“Take your clothes off,” Holmes ordered.

“Sorry?” Wilson tried again.

“Off. All of them. And do hurry, we’re in a rush,” Homes said, pulling out some coins. Wilson eyed them a moment before looking at Molly.

“I can’t do it in front 'a girl,” he blushed, looking down.

“Oh it’s quite all right, I cannot be 'sexually aroused,' as you’d say,” Molly smiled sweetly and Wilson’s eyes nearly bugged out.

“You heard the lady, strip,” Holmes said impatiently. Wilson looked down and peeled off his clothes, handing them to Holmes, until he stood only in undergarments. Holmes shoved the clothes in Molly’s arms.

“Now Wilson will mind having you strip here so you ought to go to Watson’s room,” Holmes explained to her gently and she walked out. “And bring a pair of Watson’s clothes when you come out, will you?” he called after her.

“For what?” I asked, turning on him.

“Wilson needs something to walk out in,” Holmes shrugged.

“I am taller than 162cm,” I hissed.

“Not that much taller,” Holmes smiled and I could only glare. Molly returned a moment later and we all stared. She was every bit a boy, from the clothes to her hidden hair to the grime on her face. She handed Wilson a shirt and pants of mine and Holmes gave him a few coins.

“There,” Holmes nodded. “Get yourself something new. Now, shall we?” And so we all piled into a cab and headed to the crime scene.

                                                                                …

The house was on the smaller side and when we walked in, Holmes turned to Molly.

“Thoughs?” he whispered.

“Not wealthy but not poor, bad taste in china, unmarried, between thirty-two and thirty-four, two nephews, mother died recently. Maid comes twice a week, chances are she found the body,” Molly whispered back quickly.

“How did you get that?” I asked, finally realizing I was standing with two people smarter than me, and one a child no less.

“Children’s toys but no picture of a husband, not her own then. Nephews makes the most sense. Soft layer of dust, two days old. Maid doesn’t come every day, clearly she’s not rich, but she has a maid so she’s not struggling. And anyone with such bad taste in china must be between thirty-two and thirty-four,” Molly explained softly as we walked into the drawing room.

“And the mother?” I asked.

“The top of the mirrors weren’t as dusty, they were draped recently. A death in the family and based on the ages, mother seemed most likely,” she said.

“So you guessed?” I laughed.

“A bit yes,” she admitted and I saw Sherlock smile at her over her shoulder. Lestrade spotted us and gestured us over.

“Finally,” he sighed and then saw Molly. “Holmes why did you bring a child to the crime scene?”

“Lestrade I have already foreseen sixteen reasons why Wilson would be of use to me and we haven’t even seen the body yet. I would let it go,” he advised.

Lestrade spared Molly a death glare and then let us in. The drawing room was warm and would have been cozy if not for the woman draped over the couch. She was in a dressing gown, a knife protruding from her front. Spilt tea littered the floor and a tray of biscuits sat uneaten on the table.

“Name’s Claire Wischester, age thirty-two,” Lestrade began and Sherlock and Molly smiled at each other. “Maid found her this morning. It’s clear she knew her murderer well based on her dress, a lover it seems, but after that we’re stumped. Worst part is the door was locked, maid had to unlock it this morning. But a lover may have had a key.”

Molly seemed to move possessed, picking up one of the biscuits from the table. She turned it over in her hands and then said softly, “It’s stale.”

“Put that down!” Lestrade ordered. “This is a crime scene!”

Molly shot Holmes a look and he nodded. “Everyone out,” he ordered.

“I-“ Lestrade began but Holmes cut him off.

“Out!” he repeated and slowly the Yard piled out until only Holmes, Molly and I stood with Ms. Wischester.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“No self-respecting woman would serve stale biscuits to a close friend, let alone a lover,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “Not when she clearly has fresh in the kitchen.”

Holmes stared at her. “Are you sure?”

“I may not be much of a lady but I did have to sit through the lessons,” she smiled sarcastically.

Holmes closed his eyes and brought his fingertips together. “So if the made only came twice a week-“

“And the biscuits are only two days stale-“ Molly mused.

“Then the biscuits are circumstantial,” Holmes finished.

“It was a break-in then?” I asked, trying to keep up.

“I’d say yes, but the door was locked from the inside. What kind of burglar locks up after a murder?” Holmes asked.

“A clever one,” I joked but Holmes beamed at me.

“Oh I do love it when they’re clever,” he cried. “And if they’re clever, they’ll strike again. Oh this is wonderful! Excellent work Molly,” he smiled at her and she turned bright red. “Let’s go, shall we?”

I followed Holmes out of the den, Molly close behind me. We found Lestrade and his team in the hallway and they looked up as we strode past.

“Well?” he asked.

“The biscuits are circumstantial,” Holmes said, tugging his coat on.

“So what you’re saying is-“

“Is that we have a very clever killer on our hands. The case is afoot Lestrade, do keep up,” Holmes shot back and we followed him into the cold London air. 


	4. A Study in Lonelyness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter one this week. Don't worry, next week's should be much longer. Sorry for the feels, but it just felt appropriate today :)

We followed Holmes to the back on the house where he began inspecting the windows and walls. After a moment he turned to us.

“What do you see?” he asked, his usual question. I opened my mouth but Molly began, cutting in like a knife.

“No sign of soil indentations from a ladder,” she noted, lowering onto her knees and running her hands over the garden beds. “And no unnatural paint chips on the walls.”

“Good, good. Now deduce!” Holmes urged and it took me a moment to place the sudden stab that went through my heart as jealousy.

“The killer must have come from underneath. There must be a cellar,” she suggested, rounding on Holmes.

“Excellent. Now find it for me,” he ordered.

I was silent. Molly had assumed my role of gracious listener and idea sound wall, only she spoke back and with much more brilliance than I. I had never felt so… unnecessary.

It took only a moment for Molly to find it, a door in the ground carefully covered by shrubs. Holmes inspected it a moment, kneeling to rub his hand over it, before nodding gravely and walking back to the front of the house where Lestrade was waiting.

“It will happen again,” he said to the poor inspector.

“What will?” Lestrade struggled to keep up. 

“ _A murder_ Lestrade, or are you deaf as well as slow?” Holmes quipped. “We are dealing with a serial killer.”

“How can you tell that?” Lestrade begged, looking back at the house.

“It was nearly perfectly planned, there seems to be no motif, it was clearly not a crime of passion and nothing was stolen. Serial killer. Obviously,” Holmes shot out in rapid fire and I saw Molly grin under her matted hair.

“So what do we do?” the inspector asked.

“Protect London. You are police, after all,” Holmes shrugged. “The man you’re looking for is single, age thirty to forty, lightly graying and thin.”

“You described half of London,” Lestrade groaned.

“I am aware. Which is why I am going off to investigate, something your team ought to try, at least for the novelty of it. Do call when the second one happens,” Holmes said and walked off, his eunterouge following behind him.

“Holmes,” I said once we were saftely out of earshot, “What are we going to do?”

Wordlessly, he showed me his gloves which were now covered in soil. “Footprint Watson, on the door. Not the same kind of soil. I shall analyze it and we can go on from there.”

I nodded, amazed at my friend once more, and we got into a cab. We arrived at Baker Street within minutes and Molly crept up silently to my room to change. Once we were alone, Holmes rounded on me.

“John,” he said softly and my skin erupted into small goosebumps.

“Yes Holmes?” I asked, just as soft.

He took my hand, and i could feel his skin radiate heat through his kid gloves. “I have not replaced you.”

I stared at my friend a moment, always amazed at how well he managed to read people without even trying.

“I did not think you were,” I denied.

“Molly is my student,” he explained, not lessening his grip on my wrist. “You are something else entirely. Something utterly irrreplaceable.”

“What am I?” I asked, not expecting his answer.

“My friend, John,” he said. Holmes was not often human, but when he was it was utterly, heartbreakingly earnest. If Lestrade knew he could get so sentimental he’d have a field day.

We were interrupted by a small noise and Holmes let go of my hand to turn and face Molly who was once again dressed appropriately. She held Wilson’s dirty clothes in a folded pile in her arms.

“Should I leave it here?” she asked, her voice so small, and Holmes nodded as she dropped them neatly in a corner of the sitting room. Holmes immediately retreated to his desk by the window, stripping off his soiled glove with rapid precision and preparing a microscope.

“Shall I hail you a cab Molly?” I asked but she shook her head.

“I walk,” she said. “Cab drivers can talk.”

A thought suddenly hit me. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I asked.

She shook her head delicately. It was so odd to see such a feminine act after watching her parade around in boy pants. “They think I am at piano lessons.”

“How on Earth did you manage that?” I asked, shocked. She had been only fourteen when she’d constructed that lie.

She looked at me as though convincing her parents that Holmes was a piano teacher was child’s play. “It helps I play piano Doctor,” she smiled.

I smiled back and moved to walk her to the door. Holmes did not even look up from his work and she merely voiced a goodbye in his direction before descending downstairs.

“You were quite brilliant Molly,” I said as I held open the door for her. I knew my praises often helped calm Holmes and seeing as the two were one and the same I had high hopes.

But Molly simply looked down. “Not as brilliant as him,” she said softly.

“No one is,” I agreed.

“He wants me to be,” she admitted, her voice low. “And I fear I cannot.”

“You are close,” I encouraged but she looked at me with sad eyes.

“I cannot because I cannot do what he can,” she said, her eyes searching my face. “I cannot make friends.”

My heart wrenched for this poor, lonely child and I held out my hand. “I am your friend Molly. And so is Sherlock.” The lie slipped easily from my lips but she had not become Sherlock’s student by failing to observe.

“No I am not,” she smiled sadly. “But thank you Doctor. You truly are as kind as he says.” And with that she turn and walked down Baker street, disappearing from view.

 

**Author's Note:**

> New chapter next friday!


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